Score!

‘S’wonderful, s’marvellous,’ sang the record player.

‘Lovely single, isn’t it?’ said Glyn fondly. ‘We played this and Georgie’s album all day.’

‘When did you cut your cake?’

‘Around eight, I should think. There were still people here at midnight — I left them to it.’

‘Your wife made two calls to Valhalla during the evening.’

Glyn laughed. ‘She likes to check up, always checking up on me.’ He winked at Karen who didn’t wink back.

‘Why didn’t she use the house phone?’

‘She was in the spare room — doesn’t have a phone. We often sleep in separate rooms. I tend to snore, particularly when I’ve had a few. The spare room looks north over the back of the house so it was a bit quieter during the party.’

‘You ever meet Rannaldini?’

‘Sir Roberto? Only after performances in the old days. Charismatic bloke.’

‘Think of any reason why anyone should kill him?’

‘I could have done a few years ago — he was always jumping on Rozzy.’

‘You didn’t tell me that,’ snapped Syl.

‘Why should Rannaldini have made a note to ring you the day he died?’ asked Gablecross.

‘Me!’ said Glyn somewhat flattered. ‘I’ve no idea. Perhaps Rozzy’s singing hadn’t been up to scratch, or she might have overtired herself. She’s always been delicate.’

She obviously hasn’t told Glyn about the throat cancer, thought Gablecross. He ought to mention it, instead he said, ‘Perhaps her GP could shed some light. Can you let me have his name?’

‘Of course. I know she was worried about the young chappie directing it.’

‘That is the most loathsome creep,’ stormed Karen, as she drove through the dripping dusk. ‘Bernard would make Rozzy much happier.’

But Gablecross was talking on his mobile to the incident room.

‘Interpol had a tip-off that Rupert was staying in Montvert,’ he told Karen as he switched it off. ‘Casing the Montigny joint presumably, but when they rolled up at the hotel early this morning the bird had flown. Another couple who sound suspiciously like Wolfie and Lucy, who also stayed there, gave them the slip. Rannaldini’s Gulf, on the other hand, has been clamped at Toulouse airport. Now, what the hell can that mean?’

‘That at least Lucy’s safe, Sarge,’ said Karen, patting his arm.

74

Very early that Monday morning, Lucy had been woken by a telephone call from Wolfie.

‘We gotta move it. Two plain-clothes men are downstairs looking for Rupert. Madame didn’t tell them we were here, but suggests we leg it as soon as possible out through the back garden.’

Wolfie was just gathering speed down the high street, when a loitering gendarme mistook his blond hair and suntanned face for Rupert’s, and whistled up his mate to give chase. Wolfie, who drove almost as fast as he flew, had no difficulty shaking them off. The airport was in sight, they could see Rannaldini’s Gulf jet merging into the heat-haze on the runway, when Lucy’s mobile rang. When she switched it off thirty seconds later she was as pale and trembling as a white poplar.

‘Hortense has changed her mind, but we’ve got to hurry. Dupont and the rellies are expected back before lunch.’

Lucy’s heart sank when a waiting Florence said Hortense didn’t want to see them. She led them upstairs and, with a lot of cursing, unlocked a bedroom door. As the door creaked reluctantly open, she stood back.

‘Madame said you’ll find all the information you need in here. You’re to be locked in for security reasons. Press that bell when you want to be let out.’

At first it was a question of not choking to death. As their eyes grew accustomed to the dark, it was plain that nothing had been touched for years, possibly centuries. By yanking open the shutters, Wolfie triggered off an avalanche of dust. Cobwebs, woven on top of cobwebs and dotted with flies and wasps, formed net curtains across windows and in corners.

On the walls, a little Van Gogh and several of Étienne’s enchanting drawings of dogs fought for space with school and army photographs and peeling posters of Jane Birkin, Juliette Greco and Bardot. Astérix leered up at them from the yellowing duvet covering the bed in the corner.

A half-full bottle of brandy, Roget et Gallet cologne, LPs of Sergeant Pepper, the Stones and Manfred Mann, hairbrushes, their silver backs blackened, Esquire and Playboy, Paris-Match and Shooting Times were all jumbled together on the shelves. Newspapers on the table, faded to the colour of weak tea, were all dated 1967.

‘What the hell’s all this about?’ asked Wolfie, trying to open a window.

‘Must be Laurent’s room,’ pondered Lucy. ‘Florence said Étienne never allowed anyone in here after his death. But I still don’t see.’